


sometimes you make me blue

by achilleees



Series: jack/parse tumblr prompts [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Estrangement, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Poor Life Choices, Swearing, self-sabotage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 08:43:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5157413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achilleees/pseuds/achilleees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your bag?” the cop asks, picking up Jack’s bag from the backseat and unzipping it.</p><p>“It’s -”</p><p>Through the window, Kent can see that Jack has gone very white.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sometimes you make me blue

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: "are you still taking jack/parse prompts? i'd love to read about parse taking the fall for jack in some way - don't know about what, being outed seems to be a standard thing which gets good stories about it in this fandom, not sure how it'd work in the fic (how would they be in a situation where jack could get blamed or outed but kent would be in a position to take the fall?) but i think an integral part of kent's character is that despite being an asshole he'd do anything for jack ... basically, i just like kent parson being a good guy deep down and jack/kent eventual reconciliation, lol."
> 
> UM.
> 
> I may have failed you vis a vis _eventual reconciliation_. in my defense... i have no defense. these boys just kind of write themselves.
> 
> but i really liked this prompt! so maybe i'll write a follow-up with a reconciliation! because now i feel bad and also because sad kent makes me sad.
> 
> still taking jack/parse prompts on [tumblr](http://achilleees.tumblr.com/) though i can't promise i'll fill all of them.

Kent has a newly clean-shaven face, a Las Vegas tan, and no fucking idea what he’s doing when he pulls up in front of the Haus for the first time. Jack isn’t even there, but some of his roommates are, and they shoot the shit for a while in the front yard, casting him curious glances that he pretends not to notice.

Jack is predictably awkward upon arrival. He stops dead at the end of the walkway, face going shuttered, with none of the easy warmth Kent remembers. Well, Kent thinks he does. He’s pretty sure he’s not making that up.

“Can we talk?” Kent asks.

Jack looks to the Haus, fidgeting with the strap of his bag.

“It’ll be quick,” Kent says.

So he gets Jack in the car and he drives aimlessly, and it’s awful and silent and Kent hates his stupid life. “How’s the team?”

Jack shoots him a look that’s pure contempt.

“Yeah, fair,” Kent says. “I mean, I don’t care. Do you – how are classes going?”

Jack shrugs.

“This would be easier if you talked,” Kent says.

“This would be easier if you said what you meant,” Jack says.

Fair.

“Why are you here?” Jack says.

“Fuck, why wouldn’t I be?” Kent says, scowling. “When did you decide we weren’t allowed to be friends anymore, and why wasn’t I involved in the discussion?”

Jack crosses his arms, looking away with that mulish expression, the one he wears when he knows he’s in the wrong.

“I wanted to see you,” Kent says, which is true.

Nothing.

“I miss you,” Kent says, which is even more true, although that doesn’t make it any easier to say.

Nothing.

“Fuck, Jack,” Kent says. “It doesn’t have to be fucking awful between us, you’re the only one who –”

“It doesn’t have to be _anything_ between us,” Jack says.

That one hurts. It hits harder than Kent expected, also, so much that he pulls over onto the shoulder because his hands are clumsy on the gearshift and this car is too pretty to fuck up its transmission.

“Is that what you want?” Kent says. “To just – pretend we’re cool?”

“We are cool,” Jack says. “We would be cool, if…”

“If I would stop asking you to acknowledge me,” Kent says dryly. “Yeah, that’s real cool.”

“I just don’t get why –”

“Because I fucking miss you,” Kent snaps. “Why does it have to be more than that?”

“I can’t be what – we can’t do that again,” Jack says, heated enough that it breaks his monotone a little. He’s flushing, the way he always does when he gets angry.

Kent wishes that weren’t so hot to him, even still. “I didn’t ask you to,” he said. “But – fuck, why not? Who says we can’t?”

“I do,” Jack says, and that one hurts too.

“Why, because you’re too much of a fucking –”

It’s probably better that Kent cuts himself off, noticing a sweep of headlights in the rearview mirror. “Shit,” he says.

Jack goes very still.

The cop gets out of his car, taking his time approaching Kent’s window. “Car trouble, boys?” he says.

“No sir,” Kent says. “We’ll just go.”

“She’s a beauty,” the cop says, running his hand over the chrome exterior admiringly.

Kent’s temper is frayed already. Also, Kent may very well be the dumbest person he knows. Which is why he says, faux-sweetly, “Yes, she is, so try not to leave any smudges, mmkay?”

The cop’s hand drops. His eyes narrow. “Get out of the car, son.”

“I’m not your son, sir,” Kent says.

“Get out of the car.”

Kent sneers. “I don’t see why I should have to do that, sir.”

“Kent,” Jack hisses. “Don’t.”

“I have reason to believe you may be driving under the influence,” the cop says, arms crossed.

Kent laughs, which is probably pretty dumb, he realizes even as he’s doing it. “You’re fucking kidding me, right? I am not fucking –”

“Swearing at an office of the law, flushed, shaking, acting impulsively… You tell me if you’re under control right now.” The cop frowns. “Get out of the car.”

 _No, that’s not right_ , Kent thinks. _It’s just – that’s just Zimms, that’s just what happens, it’s not…_

He gets out of the car. He takes the Breathalyzer, he walks in a line. He passes, duh. The cop is clearly frustrated, and Kent starts to enjoy himself.

“Kent, come on,” Jack mutters.

“Think you boys should be on your way,” the cop finally grumbles, gesturing for them to go.

Kent is the dumbest motherfucking self-saboteur in the world, barring the one notable exception currently in the passenger seat of his rental car. He really is such a goddamn idiot sometimes.

“No shit, you fat power-tripping –” Kent says.

The cop slams him into the hood of the car, face-first. “You keep that up and I’m booking you for disorderly conduct.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Kent says, panicked, nerves hitting him for the first time. “You can’t arrest me for being a dick.”

“I can search your car if I have reason to believe you of being intoxicated, which I strongly suspect.”

Kent scoffs. “I know my fucking rights, but sure, go the fuck ahead. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

He rubs his head when the cop releases him to go search the car. “Whose car?”

“Rental,” Kent says. “Getting returned later today.”

“Your bag?” the cop asks, picking up Jack’s bag from the backseat and unzipping it.

“It’s -”

Through the window, Kent can see that Jack has gone very white. His stomach drops, thoughts coming slow and distant. _Oh, no_ , is all he can think for a long moment.

“Yes, it’s mine, officer,” Kent says.

“Nothing to hide, huh?” the cop says, shaking bottle after bottle of pills from the bag.

Oh, no.

 

 

Jack and Kent are leaning against the Porsche while the cop fills out the _Kent Parson Dumbass Certificate_ , or whatever form he’s filling out against the cop car. When Kent finally looks up, he finds Jack with a terribly blank expression.

Kent flinches, gaze dropping again. He rubs his head where it slammed against the car hood. “Fuck,” he says quietly.

Jack stays silent.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were carrying half a goddamn pharmacy around with you?” Kent says.

“At what point was I supposed to share that information?” Jack says. “Before or after you dared a cop to arrest you?”

Kent winces. “How bad are we talking?” he says. “Ativan, Xanax…?”

“Ativan, Oxycodone, and Vicodin,” Jack says.

Kent drops his head back; it hits the car with a painful thud. “Fuck,” he says.

Jack stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“Well,” Kent says, opening his wallet. He peels a fifty from the stack and hands it to Jack.

Jack looks at him, perplexed.

“Cab fare home.”

“What?” Jack says.

“Go,” Kent says, shoving Jack, who stumbles a little.

The cop looks up sharply. He gathers his stack of paperwork and walks over. “I didn’t say anyone could leave.”

“No one is leaving,” Kent says, “because I was the only one here, sir.”

The cop and Jack both look at him, perplexed.

“I was alone in the car,” Kent says, pulling out the rest of the wad of bills in his wallet. “I was on the side of the road. I was belligerent. I had a bag of pills with me.” He fans them out slowly. “Have I said anything false?”

The cop looks at Jack. Jack looks at Kent.

“That’s a nice watch,” the cop says.

Kent unclasps his watch, relieved. He drops it into the cop’s waiting hand with all the cash.

“I’m sorry for the trouble, officer,” he says.

The cop grunts. “I’ll be in my car,” he says, with a meaningful glance, and he turns away.

“Go,” Kent says to Jack.

“I –”

“ _Go_ ,” Kent says.

Jack goes.

Kent sighs, tipping his head back against the car again, eyes closed. His head is throbbing.

Kent hates his _stupid fucking life._

 

 

As soon as the cop pulls away, Kent puts the car in drive and peels out onto the road. He fumbles with his phone once he had the free hand to do it.

“Sup, kid?” Coughlin says when he answers.

“Just got charged for possession of Ativan, Oxycodone and Vicodin without a prescription,” Kent says. “Thought you should know.”

Coughlin lets out a long, controlled breath. “Fuck,” he says.

“Sorry,” Kent mutters.

“Though you were smarter than that,” Coughlin says. “After all that shit with Zimmermann –”

“I said I’m sorry,” Kent says, and he knows in that moment how important it is that no one finds out Jack was in the car with him. Coughlin isn’t the only one to follow that logic. If people knew Jack was there, no amount of lies could cover up who that bag really belonged to.

Coughlin sighs. “I’ll start putting together your statement,” he says.

“Thanks.” Kent hangs up.

 

 

He gets almost 24 hours before the news breaks. Then shit goes crazy.

He doesn’t look at Twitter, because he’s not a goddamn masochist, but his email and phone are blowing up, and Coughlin can only do so much to keep the hounds at bay.

The guys are supportive, not one of them feeding the frenzy of the press, and he’s grateful and guilty at the same time, because they deserve better and they don’t even know how much.

An NHLPA attorney reaches out to him, telling him what his options are, dependant on his looming conviction. He reads the word “inpatient treatment” and “Stage 2 of the alcohol and drug program” and he has to laugh because he feels sick even looking at pills, he would _never_ , but there’s a specter of Zimms haunting his days that he’ll never escape.

He gets tested some dozen times over the next few days, and they’re not going to find anything, but they’re talking rehab all the same. He lets them take his blood and swab his spit, and he keeps his head down, and he hears whispers of _Parson and Zimmermann_ go hushed every time he turns a corner. It’s ironic, because it’s just what he wanted, isn’t it? The two of them together.

This isn’t what he wanted.

His mom texts him an apology. That might be the worst one yet.

 

 

Kent’s name is plastered all over the news for weeks.

He knows Jack must be feeling terrible and guilty and awful and sick about it, and he thinks about what he’ll say when Jack calls.

It’s not Jack’s fault. Kent dragged him out before he could put down his bag, Kent was belligerent with the cop, Kent gave permission to have the car searched. Kent was the frustrated dick with no self-control. Besides, Kent’s career can take this hit. He’ll rebound, stronger and better than before – he won a fucking Stanley Cup in overtime, he is _untouchable_. Jack, though, Jack’s a free agent. No team would take that risk, not with his history.

Of course Kent took the fall. It wasn’t a question for him.

It won’t make Jack feel better, Kent knows, but maybe it can start something between them. Kent doesn’t want Jack to feel indebted to him, but he wants to _talk_ to him. This can be the catalyst.

But Jack doesn’t call.

Kent waits for weeks, long after the sports media loses interest in the story, and Jack never calls.

 

 

It’s pretty incredible, Kent thinks years later, that getting arrested for drug possession on the side of the road in a suburb of Boston makes for only the _second_ worst trip he’s taken to see Jack.

He laughs, shifting into fifth gear as he hits the highway and leaves that fucking party and fucking Zimms and that fucking tiny blond boy with Bambi eyes far behind him.

He laughs and laughs, ignoring the taste of bile in his throat.

This time, he throws his watch out the window.


End file.
